


Halo

by bortlescale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:57:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bortlescale/pseuds/bortlescale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Cas stays at Chuck’s to confront Raphael and dies.<br/>And after Sam choosing Ruby, killing Lilith, and releasing Lucifer.<br/>This is Dean in the aftermath before Cas comes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halo

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first ever fanfic.  
> I hope it's enjoyable.  
> I am super impressed with all y'all that write this stuff. So much creativity, it's mind-blowing and impressive.  
> Many thanks for reading.
> 
> And of course - these characters do not belong to me.

Dean’s sitting in the soil of Chuck’s backyard, leaning against the house, arms dangling over his bent knees, whiskey in hand. He tilts his head back, finishes the whiskey, and lets his eyes fall closed against the starry sky.

It was one of those sappy things Dean wouldn’t be caught dead being associated with, but he briefly entertains the notion that angels returned to the skies when they died. If being an angel-tuxedo was like being chained to a comet, maybe they took their place amongst them at the end.

More likely that they just became nothing. Cas doesn’t exist anymore.

\---

He’s at the abandoned convenience store that he walked to after digging himself out of his own grave. Looking around, he half-expects the windows to start rattling and cracking and that awful, piercing sound to start. But everything remains still.

No Cas, not even in the dream world.

_Dean._

Dean swears he feels a light puff of air on his ear, like someone whispering, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and a slight shiver crawl slowly down his spine. He goes to turn around…

“Dean.”

He blinks his eyes open quickly as Sam stands from waking him, offering a hand to help him up. He waves off the hand and gets up, “Let’s find a place to crash.”

\---

They didn’t talk on the drive or as they unpacked into the motel room. Apparently exhaustion won out over Sam trying to have a heart to heart. Maybe he won’t even try anymore. And that thought is far more disturbing than waiting for a talk. It’s one thing to wait for the inevitable; it’s quite another when things are so fundamentally screwed that it isn’t inevitable any more. Dean glances over at Sam sprawled across the other bed and hopes he has at least a decent night’s sleep, despite everything.

He isn’t sure he’ll be so lucky. Dean’s too tired to sleep, too worn-down to pass out, too wrung-out to drink, too drowsy to drive. So he just lies back and allows all the thought fragments and emotional bursts free reign, mixing and moving without any real order or focus.

\---

Apparently, he fell asleep after all.

Dean watches as Castiel, Angel of the freaking Lord, walks toward him, tilts his head, squints, and speaks. Everything is muted, but Dean knows what he’s saying.

_You don’t think you deserve to be saved._

It was the first time he got that soul-piercing gaze, and it was still unsettling. Dean glances around as the scene freezes, but there are parts missing. No Bobby on the ground, no symbols on the walls, no weapons on the tables. Just him and Castiel, and when he glances back, no Castiel either. What the shit is up with his subconscious?

This time it’s the whir of a weed-whacker that wakes him up, but slowly, not with the suddenness that makes him draw weapons. Hopefully his reflexes aren’t that dulled, or maybe he’s still just too tired.

The handprint on his shoulder is burning.

\---

Sam was still passed out so Dean decided to make a food run. As he walks into the diner he hears a flapping, like sheets in the wind, behind him. For a split-second his chest clenches with expectation, but the reality of the past nights quickly sets in and instead a pit forms in his stomach.

“Fuck,” he whispers, turning around.

Rather than angels, however, there’s just a busboy shaking out tablecloths. Turning back toward the door, Dean runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Really, did tablecloths really sound like wings, like Castiel’s wings? Yeah yeah subconscious, guilt, got it, thanks, add him to the list.

\---

The wait was long, but he didn’t mind the slow bustle of the diner. By the time he got back to the motel Sam was dressed and on his laptop.

“Breakfast,” Dean says as he drops the bag of food on the tiny motel table.

“Thanks,” Sam answers, taking out a to-go box, “I found a case, looks like a wendigo.”

“What?” Dean stares at the top of Sam’s head while he starts to eat and continues looking at his laptop.

“Wendigo, ‘bout five hours from here.”

Disbelief. Anger. Annoyance. Dread. Betrayal. Wariness. Each of them flickers in his gut. Sam’s voice is so neutral, if he didn’t know better he would call it boredom, and it makes something twist beneath his sternum. But, eventually, exhaustion wins out. That was more and more common lately. Dean’s only answer is to grunt an affirmation.

They eat in silence.

\---

It had been a couple hours since they left and considering the pseudo-sleep he got last night, Dean should have told Sam to switch with him and drive. But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Because after everything, he just can’t trust Sam with baby right now, and didn’t that just deepen the pit in his stomach. After those betrayals – Sam and the demon blood, Sam siding with that demon bitch, Cas letting Sam out of the panic room (because he knows it was him) – he can’t risk anyone screwing with baby. He really might finally lose it. Hell if that sounds crazy to lose it over something as trivial as a car, but the thing is it’s not just a car, it’s the Impala, it’s baby. And she’s the only unmarred thing he has left.

Driving through some suburbs, there’s a small park passing on the left. Kids playing in the playground, trees swaying, people chattering, all that jazz.

_I’m not a…hammer, as you say. I have questions, I– I have doubts._

Well, judging by the Jimmy Novak soup that was spattering Chuck’s walls, at least there’s a good chance Cas isn’t back at bible camp. Dean wonders whether he could have held out this time.

\---

The hunt went well, considering. Him and Sam may have lost a lot between them, or it got twisted up, but they know how to hunt, and years of experience made it like muscle memory. Trust doesn’t have to be absolute when hunting, just enough that you know your partner’s on point and they’ve got your back. It’s not about feelings, it’s not about thinking, it’s not about believing, it’s about doing. It’s a skill, it’s physical and almost tangible.

Maybe baby isn’t the only thing he’s still got.

\---

It’s while they’re cleaning the weapons that Sam finally talks.

“Sorry about Cas, man.”

Dean pauses, “Yeah, well, dickhead did something right in the end.”

Sam gives him a scrutinizing look, like he wants to press further, but he just lets out a long breath, packs up his cache, and goes into the bathroom. And that, honestly, feels a bit better. Dean doesn’t want to enter chick flick territory, but Sam looked like he wanted to try and if that isn’t like the old Sam, he doesn’t know what is.

The next morning, breakfast isn’t as awkwardly silent.

\---

“Did I ever tell you about the time Cas threatened me?” Dean asks.

It’s been about a week since Chuck’s house. They’re on the road to the next hunt, probably a salt and burn, hopefully that’s all. The wendigo was cathartic; simple in a way that nothing has been for a while. It looks like heaven’s douchiest are reconvening. Not that Dean thought they were out of the woods, hard not to cross paths with heaven’s soldiers when you’re trying to stop an apocalypse. And he doubts the angels are done trying to use them. But that’s something Dean and Sam hadn’t talked about yet. The apocalypse is kind of a sore spot. Maybe they can get enough simple hunts in before they need to make a game plan so that whatever had been unsettled between them can start to heal, even if it does leave a nasty scar.

To his credit, Sam doesn’t react much to the sudden speech, much less the odd topic. He’s probably learned not to question it when Dean is talking about something that could be construed as being in the near vicinity of his feelings. So Sam just answers, “No, about what?”

“It was right after I got back and, you know, I’m not dropping to my knees to pray and grovel just ‘cause he says he’s an angel of the lord. So, Cas shows up in Bobby’s kitchen…” Dean neglects to tell Sam that this is in a dream, because yeah there’s not anything eyebrow-raising about that. So he’s just not going there. “…and he’s right up in my face, you know him and personal space, and threatening to throw me back into hell if I don’t respect him or whatever.”

_You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of hell; I can throw you back in._

As Sam glances over, Dean’s got kind of a faraway look in his eye and the barest of amused smiles.

“Dude, I was nearly shitting myself, guy can be scary,” Dean hollowly chuckles.

Sam doesn’t say anything about him using the present tense. Dean’s got a stoic face on, staring out the windshield, not even glancing over at Sam. So Sam faces forward too.

“It’s ok to miss him, Dean,” Sam pushes, sharp as a spoon.

Dean’s lips go into a thin line, “He’s the one who let you out of the panic room, Sam.”

And Sam looks over sharply at that, “How do you know?”

“I just do, it had to be,” Dean’s face is stormy now, “God, I didn’t think he was gonna do anything the way he left that friggin’ room they had me trapped in, and he’d already let you out. And then he’s taking me to Chuck to find out where you are and staying to fight an archangel.” His knuckles are almost white on the steering wheel. “Ass,” he grits out.

_Yeah well, we’re making it up as we go._

“Yeah, that was a dick move,” Sam agrees, “but, well, at least he was trying to make up for it.”

_…archangels are fierce, they’re absolute, they’re heaven’s most terrifying weapon…Just so you understand, why I can’t help._

Maybe Sam wasn’t just talking about Cas anymore. Good actions couldn’t just erase the bad, but they did make it easier to forgive or at least to move on. The only difference was that Sam still had a chance. Cas may have gone down in a blaze of glory, but damn if he wasn’t the master of mixed messages before that. Dean almost wants him back just so he can ream him and let him try again or send him away for good. But that bastard took that chance out of his hands too. And goddamn if the tangled mess going on in his chest when he thinks about Cas isn’t edging in on being half as big as the one when he thinks of Sam. Considering Sam is, well, Sam, that’s a whole hell of a lot.

“Yeah,” Dean responds, letting out a long sigh, “yeah, maybe.”

\---

The next night, Dean’s got a sprained wrist and a bunch of other minor bumps and bruises from the stupid ghost. Sam’s about the same, except for a gash on his arm from when the shovel went flying out of Dean’s hands. They’re holed up in the motel, Dean watching TV and Sam on the computer, and there’s a huge crack of lightening followed very closely by bone-rattling thunder. In seconds Dean’s on his feet with a salt-round shotgun and Sam’s got Ruby’s knife.

The lights go out.

But there’s no flickering, no cold spots, no smell of sulfur, no sound of wings. The lightening-thunder pair cracks and rumbles again, but not unnaturally soon. They’re standing tensely in the room, trying to get their eyes to adjust to the dark.

A minute passes. They’re breathing shallowly.

Another minute.

Another.

Dean moves to sit back down on his bed. The barely audible hum of a generator kicks on and so do the lights. The TV isn’t reporting some freak weather or flashing a warning. It’s just a storm passing through. Dean snorts. Anybody else would be megalomaniacs for thinking a force of nature was focused on them.

The thought doesn’t stop him from expecting someone to bust through the door, but not someone he dreads.

No one does.

\---

Dean’s in the middle of another hell nightmare when everything whites out and he’s in the empty building where they trapped Alastair. Everything’s muted again except for the slow drip of water somewhere. Dean turns around to see Cas looking off in the distance, leaning against a table.

_For what it’s worth, I- I would give anything not to have you do this._

“Sure, whatever,” he says under his breath, and the scene freezes again, except for that damn dripping water. Dean hadn’t seen it then but, for whatever reason, he can see Cas’ face now. He looks lost, but as Dean peers closer he can see that Cas’ hands are nearly white from clasping so tightly. And Dean knows that stance; he had it when his dad disappeared. Standing in the middle of his dad’s motel room, wondering what to do, aching to do something but without the slightest idea as to what. He remembers what it was like to suddenly have no structure, no direction, no orders.

But he still knew right and wrong. Cas shouldn’t have needed to be told.

Sam shouldn’t have either.

That water just won’t stop dripping. Dean finds the source in the room where they had Alastair. It’s ruining the devil’s trap. He looks back to find the other room empty now.

\---

Dean wakes up first, as usual, and heads to the shower. He’s standing under the hot and surprisingly well-pressured spray as his mind wanders back to his dream. The thing with Sam is that he already had Dean’s trust. Sure it got worn-down and fractured, but it wasn’t until he left that it truly broke. He just thought, believed, that Sam would come through, right up to the end; he had to. Now that’s a bridge they’ve got to rebuild, and he thinks maybe they can. It won’t be like before, hell, there’s so much shit that’s gone down it might not ever be done, but they can try. And that thought makes Dean a little less exhausted, because he’ll try and he thinks Sam will try too.

_I know our fate rests with you._

And then there’s Cas, who, at turns, seemed like he trusted Dean more than anyone else, and at others, apparently just did what heaven told him. Dean had never really trusted Cas, he hadn’t earned it, but that didn’t stop Cas from believing in him. Sometimes. Maybe eventually Cas would have seen on his own the rights and wrongs. He could have been headed there, judging from his choices in the end. Maybe eventually Cas would have earned some trust from Dean. And that’s the thing; Dean had wanted to trust Cas. Maybe that’s why there was such a pit in his stomach about him. It was now devoid of everything that could have been.

\---

They’re just rolling out of town when something almost unthinkable happens - the impala’s left back tire gives out. Dean feels it as soon as it happens and quickly comes to a stop before any real damage is done. They’re nearing an intersection at the time and they slow down before it and pull over. Just as they stop a semi runs a red light in front of them and barrels through the intersection from the left.

Sam watches the semi pass by, a slightly disbelieving look on his face, “Dude, if we didn’t stop, that truck would’ve hit us.”

“Yeah, baby’s our savior,” Dean says dryly, but he’s gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. His first instinct is to wonder who’s messing with them. Then come the flashbacks of the accident with their dad. Would Dean have been dying again? Would Sam have made a deal? Would the angels bring him back? No Cas to resurrect him this time. Dean shakes himself out of that train of thought, that won’t happen, it didn’t happen.

Sam gets out of the car to stretch his legs a bit while Dean changes the tire.

_Good things do happen, Dean._

It’s such a tiny thing, Dean knows. Pure coincidence. He’s still not convinced that fate isn’t a grade-A bitch. But lately things with him and Sam are looking up as much as they can, they’ll manage. Avoiding an accident seems small compared to having to deal with the apocalypse but, somehow, Dean’s feeling a little less exhausted than before.

“You might have a point, Cas” Dean whispers to himself as he loosens the bolts, “just maybe you son of a bitch.” His tone has no venom, and a hint of grief.

\---

A few days later, Dean’s in a motel parking lot leaning on the trunk of the impala. Sam’s in the room doing research, but he needed some fresh air. It’s nice out, blue skies and all, sun is shining brightly; it looks like it’s casting out a halo as he squints up at the sky. He doesn’t look long, obviously, because it’s kind of blinding. He suddenly wonders if Raphael came down in true form, unimaginably bright light and horrendously piercing sound. How can a wavelength even die? Maybe Cas is just scattered, amongst all the rest of the light and sound.

Dean squints back up at the haloed sun.

_Prayer is sign of faith._

“Hey Cas,” Dean looks at the ground at a loss of what to say next. A bunch of trite thoughts scurry through his head, apologies, curses, words of gratitude, and pleas. With a huff Dean pushes those thoughts aside. “See ya, man.”

Dean’s heading back into the motel when he hears that sheets-in-the-wind sound behind him again. His hands ball into fists at his side and he’s really hoping it’s not goddamn Zachariah. He’s already pissed by the time he turns around, but when he looks up he’s too stunned to feel anything. Which is quickly followed by too many emotions crashing into him at once - relief, anger, suspicion, grief, surprise, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of hope.

“Hello, Dean.”


End file.
